coat. Even his lips were blue, and his eyes were dead.
âWhat about
you
?â she said.
Before the boy could answer, a bell rang out. His head shot up and he glanced at a door which Abren hadnât noticed before, at the end of the room, behind the tea bar.
âWhatâs going on?â Abren said.
The boy didnât answer, just started rushing about. Abren watched as bread and butter appeared out of a box, followed by a half-opened tin of peaches, a cup of chocolate raisins and a mug of tea. The boy piled them all on to a tray made out of a cardboard lid and headed for the door.
âWhatâs going on?
â Abren repeated. âWhat are you doing? Where are you going?â
The bell rang again, sharp and insistent. The boy pushed open the door and hurried through.
Abren followed, full of curiosity. On the other side she found another room which was as grand as the boyâs was tawdry. Its floor was tiled and carpeted. Its gilt-framed mirror didnât hang on string. Its light wasnât a single bulb but a crystal chandelier. And beneath it stood not a tea urn with cheap cups but a fine piano with polished brasses and keys made of ivory.
Abren stared in amazement. Only later did she realise that the gilt-framed mirror was speckled with age, the ivory keys yellow and half the cut-glass droplets on the chandelier either cracked or missing. At the far end of the room stood an ornate marble fireplace, and in front of it sat a throne-like armchair, upholstered in red velvet and carved with leaves.
In the chair sat an old woman.
âI know Iâm late. Iâm sorry,â the boy said.
He hurried to the chair, put down the cardboard tray, removed the bell from the old womanâs lap and replaced it with the bread and butter. The old woman picked at it with spidery little hands, and he danced attendance, throwing a fresh log on the fire to bring itback to life, then giving her the peaches, and then the raisins too, which she ate without leaving a single one.
All the while, she stared through the boy with flint-cold eyes. Stared as if he werenât there, and stared through Abren too.
âDo you want your cup of tea?â the boy asked when everything else was finished.
The old woman didnât answer, just turned away. The boy looked up and saw Abren watching. He blushed as if sheâd caught him out.
âMeet Old Sabrina, queen of the river,â he said.
Millennium night
The boy lay covered up in blankets at one end of the mattress, and Abren lay at the other, curled up tight beneath a pile of old coats. The lights were out and in the darkness she could hear things scampering. She tried to sleep but couldnât. The day ran back through her mind, ending where it had started, with Santaâs chocolates.
Now Dogpole Alley felt so far away, with its half-demolished turkey, its presents scattered everywhere and its glittering tree. Abren remembered Bentley playing âherâ tune on his new saxophone. She was sure he hadnât known what he was doing, but if it hadnât been for him, she wouldnât be lying here now, telling herself that she was where she should be, and there was nothing to be frightened of.
Not even Old Sabrina.
Abren pulled the coats around her and thought of the old woman asleep next door. She remembered the boy running at her beck and call. Heâd shaken when heâd crossed the floor carrying that tray of tea things. And Abren didnât blame him. There was something weird about Old Sabrina. She hadnât thanked the boy for anything, or even smiled at him. Hadnât done a thing to help herself, just sat on that chair in her tightly buttoned, holey cardigan and long dusty skirt.
The boy had fetched her blankets and pillows and a footstool for her blotchy feet. Heâd made hercomfortable for the night â far more comfortable than heâd been himself in his wet clothes. But when he left the room, she still
âWhat about
you
?â she said.
Before the boy could answer, a bell rang out. His head shot up and he glanced at a door which Abren hadnât noticed before, at the end of the room, behind the tea bar.
âWhatâs going on?â Abren said.
The boy didnât answer, just started rushing about. Abren watched as bread and butter appeared out of a box, followed by a half-opened tin of peaches, a cup of chocolate raisins and a mug of tea. The boy piled them all on to a tray made out of a cardboard lid and headed for the door.
âWhatâs going on?
â Abren repeated. âWhat are you doing? Where are you going?â
The bell rang again, sharp and insistent. The boy pushed open the door and hurried through.
Abren followed, full of curiosity. On the other side she found another room which was as grand as the boyâs was tawdry. Its floor was tiled and carpeted. Its gilt-framed mirror didnât hang on string. Its light wasnât a single bulb but a crystal chandelier. And beneath it stood not a tea urn with cheap cups but a fine piano with polished brasses and keys made of ivory.
Abren stared in amazement. Only later did she realise that the gilt-framed mirror was speckled with age, the ivory keys yellow and half the cut-glass droplets on the chandelier either cracked or missing. At the far end of the room stood an ornate marble fireplace, and in front of it sat a throne-like armchair, upholstered in red velvet and carved with leaves.
In the chair sat an old woman.
âI know Iâm late. Iâm sorry,â the boy said.
He hurried to the chair, put down the cardboard tray, removed the bell from the old womanâs lap and replaced it with the bread and butter. The old woman picked at it with spidery little hands, and he danced attendance, throwing a fresh log on the fire to bring itback to life, then giving her the peaches, and then the raisins too, which she ate without leaving a single one.
All the while, she stared through the boy with flint-cold eyes. Stared as if he werenât there, and stared through Abren too.
âDo you want your cup of tea?â the boy asked when everything else was finished.
The old woman didnât answer, just turned away. The boy looked up and saw Abren watching. He blushed as if sheâd caught him out.
âMeet Old Sabrina, queen of the river,â he said.
Millennium night
The boy lay covered up in blankets at one end of the mattress, and Abren lay at the other, curled up tight beneath a pile of old coats. The lights were out and in the darkness she could hear things scampering. She tried to sleep but couldnât. The day ran back through her mind, ending where it had started, with Santaâs chocolates.
Now Dogpole Alley felt so far away, with its half-demolished turkey, its presents scattered everywhere and its glittering tree. Abren remembered Bentley playing âherâ tune on his new saxophone. She was sure he hadnât known what he was doing, but if it hadnât been for him, she wouldnât be lying here now, telling herself that she was where she should be, and there was nothing to be frightened of.
Not even Old Sabrina.
Abren pulled the coats around her and thought of the old woman asleep next door. She remembered the boy running at her beck and call. Heâd shaken when heâd crossed the floor carrying that tray of tea things. And Abren didnât blame him. There was something weird about Old Sabrina. She hadnât thanked the boy for anything, or even smiled at him. Hadnât done a thing to help herself, just sat on that chair in her tightly buttoned, holey cardigan and long dusty skirt.
The boy had fetched her blankets and pillows and a footstool for her blotchy feet. Heâd made hercomfortable for the night â far more comfortable than heâd been himself in his wet clothes. But when he left the room, she still
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